


Bare Knees and Freedom

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack but not crack, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Pre-Slash, not really actual slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This should be cracky, but somehow isn't? </p>
<p>Basically: Dwarves in kilts, man.</p>
<p>(This work has been translated into Russian! Link in the notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bare Knees and Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. I have long lost control of my life.
> 
> Inspired by fanart of Thorin in a kilt by dwalinroxxx. [[x](http://dwalinroxxx.tumblr.com/post/43733224815/for-the-meme-prompt-thorin-wearing-a-kilt-but-i)]
> 
> Thanks to [daemonwildcat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daemonwildcat) for betaing.

Waking up on the eve of a great battle should have been completely terrifying. Certainly, when he’d actually opened his eyes and stretched the kinks out of his back from sleeping on a pile of coins, he’d felt antsy and uncomfortable. But when Bilbo wandered out of Erebor and out into the sunshine, looking for his companions, things took a turn for the bizarre.

 

Bilbo shut his eyes tightly and opened them again. The scene before him hadn’t changed, which worried him. He wondered if he’d finally lost his wits, after going through so many trials and tribulations. It was either that or Smaug had managed to leave him a pile of ash and he was now in some sort of mind warping afterlife. There was no other reasonable explanation.

 

“Bilbo! You’re awake!” Nori’s cheerful greeting brought with it the gazes of his other Dwarf companions, and their respective calls of welcome.

 

“Good morning,” he mumbled.

 

The Dwarves noticed how subdued he was, and Bilbo immediately found himself the subject of scrutiny.

 

“You alright?” Kíli grabbed him by the elbow and peered into his face.

 

Very aware of the amount of bare skin so close to him – which was quite silly, considering they’d all seen each other in various states of undress during the course of their quest – Bilbo blushed deeply, but didn’t answer.

 

Fíli came up to them, bracing his forearm on his brother’s shoulder. “He looks rather flushed, our burglar does. He might be ill.”

 

Before Bilbo could figure out what was happening, he found himself being frog marched towards the Company’s resident healer.

 

“Óin, can you see what’s wrong with our Bilbo?”

 

“Eh?” Óin scowled up at them, raising his (new) ear-horn.

 

Kíli cupped his hands to his mouth. “We think Bilbo’s ill! Can you take a look?”

 

“I’m really fine,” Bilbo mumbled, absently thinking that the red-and-black-and-white of Óin’s wool offset the grey of his hair quite nicely. He was then immediately horrified that he’d made such an observation.

 

“Anyone’d be a little nervous before their first battle,” Fíli said benevolently, slinging an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and inadvertently pressing the side of his chest to Bilbo’s temple. He held fast, even as Bilbo tried to wriggle free.

 

“Not us, of course!” Kíli said, grinning, standing with his arms akimbo.

 

“Yeah, not us.”

 

Bilbo didn’t even bother to correct their incorrect assumptions (although he _wasn’t_ looking forward to tomorrow). Instead he wondered if it was possible for a person to spontaneously combust. His face certainly felt hot enough.

 

“If you want me to check the laddie, you’ll have to bring him a little closer,” Óin said, beckoning Bilbo forward.

 

“Ah – that’s not necessary! I’m as right as rain, honestly!”

 

“Hum,” said Óin, not looking entirely convinced. “What have you two scamps done to him, then?”

 

“Us? We haven’t done anything!” Fíli said, sounding scandalised.

 

“Quite frankly, Óin, the accusation wounds us.”

 

Óin snorted. “I can remember you two being involved when little Gimli started vomiting for three days straight.” His eyes had narrowed. “My brother didn’t sleep in all that time.”

 

Kíli had the decency to look a little guilty, although he unrepentantly said, “We didn’t think our cousin’d be stupid enough to actually eat those worms.”

 

“And the beetles, don’t forget those,” Fíli added helpfully.

 

Casting a scowl at the brothers, Óin just shook his head and walked off to sit by Balin.

 

“Óin! It was funny!” Kíli called after him. “We were Dwarflings!”

 

“You’re still Dwarflings!” Glóin called, and a few of the Dwarves hooted with laughter.

 

Narrowing his eyes, Kíli decided to give up and whirled on the Company’s burglar. “Come now, Bilbo, this denial will get you nowhere.” Kíli moved to his other side and lay his arm atop his brother’s, leaving Bilbo framed by more naked skin than he cared for. Not that the Hobbit was a _prude_ , but it – it just wasn’t proper!

 

“We’re just concerned,” Fíli said, gently squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder.

 

“Aye. You _were_ sick after we ended up in Laketown. Sneezed all over the place.” Kíli winked.

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes, still trying to escape from their grasp (and failing). “I’d been in a river,” he said testily. “There’s no possible reason for me to be sick now – not that I am, mind you.”

 

He could feel the two of them exchanging glances over his head. “Well, since you’re all hot and bothered –”

 

“As opposed to cold and shivering –”

 

“It’s probably because you were exposed to the Dragon!” Fíli finished triumphantly.

 

“Now will you listen to us?” Kíli’s wide-eyed look would’ve probably worked better if Bilbo was looking in his direction in the first place, instead of at the ground.

 

“No! This is absolutely ridiculous, and –”

 

A strong voice interrupted what promised to be a properly impressive tirade. “What’s going on?”

 

Fíli and Kíli immediately let go of Bilbo, one of them pointedly giving him a shove between his shoulder blades so he stumbled forwards, closer to Thorin.

 

“Bilbo’s sick, Uncle!” Kíli announced helpfully.

 

“Yes – so you should order him to stop being so stubborn and to let Óin see to him.”

 

Thorin snorted. “I think we all know how poorly Master Baggins takes to being ordered around.” He paused. “Bilbo? Are you alright?”

 

“Of course he’s not –” Kíli started, but he abruptly cut himself off. Presumably Thorin had shot him a quelling look, as he so often did.

 

Bilbo didn’t know if this was so, because he had his eyes tightly shut.

 

Someone touched his shoulder – Thorin – and Bilbo almost flinched away. He didn’t – he didn’t want to open his eyes, he didn’t want to look. He knew for a fact that in doing so, he would show to all how much of a fool he was and –

 

“Bilbo, what’s wrong?”

 

Ohhh, Thorin had no right to sound so concerned.

 

“I’m fine,” Bilbo said through gritted teeth. “Though your nephews may have given me a headache with their insistence otherwise.”

 

“Then they will be duly punished.”

 

Bilbo could hear Fíli and Kíli not-so-stealthily sneak off. Thorin remained in front of him, and too close.

 

“Now will you tell me what’s bothering you?” Thorin asked quietly. “I know I cannot order you, but I rather thought we had grown to be friends.”

 

That was _unfair_.

 

Bilbo bit his lips before answering. “I swear to you, Thorin, there is nothing wrong.”

 

“I would believe that if you looked me in the eye.”

 

Knowing that there was no way to avoid it, Bilbo sighed. He counted to ten before opening his eyes and looking at Thorin.

 

He immediately regretted it.

 

The cloth Thorin wore was the same colour and pattern as Fíli’ and Kíli’s – blue on a darker blue, in squares and lines that intersected each other. A swathe of it went across and around Thorin’s chest, disappearing over his shoulder and down his back. Orcrist was buckled on the opposite shoulder, the leather strap crossing the fabric that covered his chest. As for the rest of the cloth (that looked like wool), well –

 

There were no two things about it. Like every other Dwarf of the Company, Thorin Oakenshield was wearing a _skirt_.

 

This, quite evidently, bothered Bilbo. Not only because it was extremely peculiar (although that was a big part of his distress), but because it… suited the King.

 

Bilbo’s fists clenched as he discerned dark blue patterns nestled in the dark hair covering Thorin’s chest and on his arms. There were lighter blue lines across Thorin’s face that looked like some sort of war paint. Bilbo supposed they were there to intimidate any fool who dared to get in Thorin’s way.

 

And Thorin looked, er – well he looked… Um. There were very many adjectives in Bilbo’s vocabulary that would probably be suitable for the job of describing the King’s appearance, but they weren’t fit for polite company – or even in the privacy of his own head.

 

And drat it all, now Thorin was staring at him with a tiny smirk curling his mouth. Almost as if he _knew_ what Bilbo was thinking – and Bilbo fervently hoped Thorin didn’t somehow have that power. It would be… most inconvenient.

 

Luckily, Thorin decided to ask, “So, what’s all this about your being sick?”

 

“I’m not!” Bilbo insisted, resolutely looking away from Thorin and his impressive chest. Not that Bilbo hadn’t noticed it before and admired its broadness and – oh, bother it.

 

“You certainly are bothered by something.” Thorin looked him up and down, noting the way that Bilbo was now wringing the cuff of his coat. “I think you _may_ be unwell.”

 

“I’m not sick!” Bilbo exclaimed shrilly. “I’m not the one wearing a skirt!”

 

There was silence around the camp. Then laughter.

 

Even Thorin looked amused. “This isn’t a skirt, little burglar. This is Dwarf clothing, it is what our forefathers used to wear when entering battle. We honour their memory by clothing ourselves in this raiment.”

 

Bilbo’s face was a fascinatingly deep shade of red. “But it’s not _decent_!”

 

“Perhaps not to you,” said Thorin, in a surprisingly understanding tone of voice. “Seeing as you are not one of us.”

 

He dropped his gaze to mask the stab of hurt that lanced through him. “I see.”

 

A large finger tipped Bilbo’s chin upwards, so his eyes met Thorin’s. “I meant that you are not a Dwarf.”

 

Bilbo swallowed, very much aware that Thorin had not let him go. “I see,” he said, again.

 

Thorin nodded and released Bilbo, casual as you please. “It’s understandable that you’re surprised. It’s been a long while since any Dwarf has been seen in such attire.” He placed his hands on his hips and half turned to survey the rest of the Company – and Bilbo followed suit automatically.

 

Each of the Dwarves were kitted similarly Bilbo noted, cheeks burning. Even so, it appeared that while Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli wore the same blue cloth (despite Fíli’ and Kíli’s being tied a little differently and with different accents), the others did not. They seemed to have… family colours, Bilbo supposed.

 

As mentioned earlier, Óin’s was red and white and black – the white lines were the thinnest and formed the largest squares – just like his brother’s. Glóin seemed not to care that his ginger hair clashed with his sk… with his clothes. Clashed with his clothes. Not skirt. Clothes.

 

The sons of Fundin had a similar pattern of cloth; instead of white, though, it included a pale blue. The effect was that the design was busier but in a muted way. Balin wore his so that it looked more like a wrapped pinafore than anything. Dwalin, on the other hand, made do with just the, er, skirt bit. Bilbo hurried his gaze along, because every movement Dwalin made caused his muscles to flex and ripple, calling attention to the numerous tattoos on his skin.

 

Which, you know, was all very good for someone like Ori (who was freely staring) – but Bilbo had some shreds of propriety left that he wanted to hold on to, thank you!

 

Speaking of the unsubtle scribe, Ori and his brothers were clad in purple. Bilbo squinted as Dori walked past, seemingly unaware of his younger brother’s pining gaze. Yes, theirs was purple and blue, with a dash of green and white. As Nori and Fíli threw playful punches at and grappled with each other (Kíli cheering at the sidelines), Bilbo was struck with the sudden thought of whether or not they had underclothing on – seeing as the Dwarves seemed to favour their one-piece suits, which quite clearly were in absence.

 

Mortified, Bilbo stifled his squeak and sought out Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur.

 

He wasn’t surprised to see that the miner-turned-toymaker and his kin wore the brightest cloth of all the Dwarves. Theirs was just green and yellow, the squares of the patterns relatively smaller when compared to the rest of the Company. It put him in mind of goldfields in spring and Bilbo smiled a little, relaxing for the first time since waking up that morning.

 

That was why he didn’t stop himself from opening his mouth. “Isn’t it highly impractical, though?”

 

“Why should it be?” Thorin sounded genuinely confused.

 

Bilbo just looked up at him with raised eyebrows.

 

“Our movements are unhindered in this clothing, which is very useful in combat. And the air is not so cold that additional layers are required.” His lips quirked slightly. “I think we will survive, Master Hobbit.”

 

“And all this bare skin is a good idea, then?” Bilbo’s tone isn’t quite as bland as he’d like, and he’s sure that his cheeks are burning, but at least Thorin doesn’t comment.

 

“There was a time, ages and ages ago, when Dwarves felt that going without plate armour was a test of our battle prowess. Indeed, you’ve seen how we carry our battle scars, Bilbo. They are a thing to be proud of.”

 

Bilbo shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand! You’re just – this is inviting injury!”

 

He wouldn’t say that he was surprised that Thorin started chuckling, but it didn’t make Bilbo any less annoyed. To pacify him, Thorin quelled his smile and held out a hand. “Come.”

 

A little leery, Bilbo obligingly set his hand in Thorin’s.

 

To his horror, Thorin proceeded to tug Bilbo a little closer and _set Bilbo’s palm against his chest_ , where the cloth covered it. “What do you feel?” Thorin asked, apparently unaware of the charged atmosphere around him and the Hobbit.

 

Or maybe that was just Bilbo.

 

“Burglar?”

 

Oh, yes. Thorin had asked a question. Bilbo tried to focus.

 

The answer that sprang to mind – and that was hurriedly discarded – was that he felt the solid plane of Thorin’s chest beneath his fingers, impossibly warm and hard muscle that just begged to be –

 

By sheer force of will, Bilbo kept his expression and voice neutral as he glanced up at Thorin. “I don’t understand.”

 

As unhelpful as always, Thorin merely pressed Bilbo’s hand a little more firmly against his body. Downright ignoring the fluttering low in his belly, Bilbo frowned and tried to figure out what the stupidly tight-lipped King wanted. As if reading his mind, Thorin pressed even more firmly, and shifted. Was that –?

 

Something must have shown on Bilbo’s face, because Thorin decided to (finally) spare him any more trouble and said, “It is mithril.”

 

“Mithril?”

 

“It is our most precious of metals. Harder than dragonscales and lighter than feathers.” A dark emotion passed over Thorin’s face. “Moria was particularly rich with mithril.”

 

Bilbo swallowed, and attempted to steer the conversation away from Thorin’s unpleasant past. “So this Dwarvish war raiment of yours… is lined with mithril?”

 

“Mine is, yes, and Fíli’ and Kíli’s.”

 

“The rest?”

 

“Simple chain, I should think. Steel, or some other lesser metal.” Thorin looked askance as the Dwarves finished up the last of their morning ablutions, moving to continue the repair work of yesterday. For a moment, it appeared as if he was going to add something more, but then he just let go of Bilbo’s hand.

 

Bilbo hadn’t even noticed that Thorin had been holding it.

 

“Come,” Thorin said, a little gruffly. “Let’s continue on with the fortifications.”

 

* * *

 

Work was as laborious as it had been yesterday, and Bilbo had been only too glad when the day had grown too dark for them to continue on. He was exhausted, and was not looking forward to sleeping on the piles of gold as they had been doing for the past few days. They would have ventured deeper into Erebor to look for more liveable areas, but for the damage Smaug had wrought to the walkways.

 

That and the giant heaps of dragon dung. Ugh.

 

Dinner was simple and disappointingly bland. Bilbo understood that they were rationing the food they had left, but he couldn’t help but think – as he had at various points during their quest – of the hot puddings and cold soups of Bag End, of roasts and fresh vegetables, glorious cakes and pies and scones slathered in jam and –

 

“Bilbo? Will you accompany me outside?”

 

Bilbo blinked. How typical that he’d be lost in thoughts of food at the eve of battle. He looked up at Thorin.

 

“Now?” He accepted the hand that Thorin offered him and was easily hoisted to his feet.

 

“Evidently.” Thorin turned away from him and started walking. When Dwalin started to rise, he waved a hand dismissively. “We will return shortly.”

 

Dwalin nodded at Bilbo as he passed, and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. Bilbo would’ve liked to ask about it (if he managed to pluck up the courage first), but Thorin was already far ahead of him. He broke into a half-jog to catch up.

 

The night air was still and stifling. They did not venture far from the entrance into Erebor, and Bilbo took a moment to stare up at the stars. He could not immediately place familiar constellations (they were in the wrong position), and that threw him off balance somewhat.

 

Not paying attention, Bilbo was taken aback when Thorin pressed a bundle into his hands, pale eyes unreadable. Bilbo found his gaze caught by the three lines that started at Thorin’s temple and ran down his cheek. It was a concerted effort to tear his eyes away and focus on what was being said to him.

 

“I would like to… You are…” Thorin’s mouth tightened and the pebbles underfoot crunched under his boots as he shifted in place. “This is for you. If you want it.”

 

Bilbo placed a hand on top of the oilcloth. The temptation was to pull on the twine and undo the knot holding the bundle closed, but there must have been a reason why Thorin had decided to give him this now, in (relative) privacy.

 

“What is it?” he asked instead, considering Thorin carefully (and likewise carefully not noticing the bold patterns across his chest).

 

“It is a gift.” It seemed that Thorin became gruffer when uncomfortable, because Bilbo almost couldn’t make out his muttered words. “For tomorrow.”

 

He’d been hoping for a more straightforward answer, but Bilbo couldn’t deny that his faint annoyance was overshadowed by the way his heart surged in wonder. He wouldn’t have expected Thorin to ever gift him with anything – then again, a few months ago he wouldn’t have expected Thorin to even look at him with anything other than disdain.

 

Bilbo hugged the bundle to his chest, noting its softness and so immediately dismissing the possibility of some kind of armour or weapon. “Thank you, Thorin.”

 

The King inclined his head. With no more response than that, he turned on his heel and went back inside. Bilbo’s eyes did not track the flare of blue wool and the flash of strong thighs.

 

No. He most definitely didn’t do that.

 

When Bilbo managed to tear his eyes away from not-doing- _that_ (though only by virtue of Thorin disappearing from view), he regarded the package in his arms. Now that he thought about it, he had his suspicions about what was inside, but they could only be confirmed or debunked if he untied the knotted twine.

 

He hesitated.

 

After a moment, he huffed, realising that he was afraid of opening a gift. _Really_. He was being quite silly.

 

The first thing Bilbo saw, when he pushed aside the oilcloth, was a chain shirt that gleamed almost white in the moonlight. He gasped softly as he ran his fingers over the delicate links, and wondered where Thorin had found it.

 

The second thing Bilbo saw made him gape. And then he flushed.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo shivered a little in the cool morning sun.

 

This had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the hush of the battlefield – or what would soon be a battlefield. Bilbo was practical to a fault, and had no illusions of what would happen; this relative peace would soon be shattered by the screams and the terror and the blood and the gore.

 

Thorin’s second cousin Dáin Ironfoot had apparently arrived in the small hours of the morning, when Bilbo had still been (uncomfortably) asleep, along with his army of 500 strong. The sheer number of Dwarves had been a shock to the poor Hobbit, especially since they were all kitted for war in heavy armour and iron boots. It was a stark contrast to the Company and their not-skirts, which fluttered ever-so-slightly in the wind.

 

More than a few confused glances were thrown Bilbo’s way, especially when Thorin bid him stand by his side.

 

“I trust the shirt fits,” Thorin murmured, looking not at the Hobbit but out towards the lines of their enemy.

 

“Yes,” Bilbo said, nodding. “I… thank you, again, Thorin.”

 

“Think nothing of it.” He was graced with a smile. “It would be irresponsible of me to send you into battle in naught but cotton and your skin.”

 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Someone – Dori, he thought – had found him a helm that actually fit and Dwalin had even passed him a small shield that he could lift with no difficulty. His Hobbit sensibilities stayed firm enough that he wore his white (or what used to be white) shirt over the mithril coat that had been gifted to him, though. Although Thorin hadn’t said it outright, it had been quite clear that mithril wasn’t something that everyone owned.

 

Thorin unsheathed his sword. Almost as if in slow motion, he raised it to the sky, sunlight flashing along its blade. His voice was filled with power as he shouted in Khuzdul, a battle cry that filled even Bilbo’s heart with courage, and no doubt had fear lancing through their enemies.

 

The King turned his head, then, catching Bilbo’s gaze. His grin was fierce and only grew wider when Bilbo laughed merrily. Suddenly, all his fear had disappeared, even as the Goblins started shrieking and throwing taunts. All Bilbo could hear was the song of the MistyMountains, and all he could see was the Dwarf he would follow to death itself.

 

“ _Du Bekâr_!” Thorin roared and, as one, the Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills plunged into battle, their boots thundering and shaking the ground beneath their feet.

 

And so it was that Bilbo Baggins – Hobbit of Bag End, Burglar and Fourteenth of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, Ring-winner and Luckwearer and Barrel Rider – ran into battle alongside his friends and companions; Sting in hand, determined grin on his face, and blue-on-blue wool around his waist.

**Author's Note:**

> Tartan patterns:  
> the House of Durin: Clanmorgan tartan  
> sons of Fundin: Clan MacTavish tartan (I couldn't resist)  
> brothers Óin: Munro/Monrois tartan  
> brothers Ri: Scotland Forever tartan  
> brothers Ur: Pilgrim (Bedford) tartan
> 
>  
> 
> Just to explain the AU-ness of this, basically the gold fever didn't happen, and so Bilbo didn't have to bargain with the Arkenstone. And Dain got there earlier than he actually did. And I'm twisting things to my own advantage, ssh.
> 
>  
> 
> Russian translation (!!!) by HelenHight [[link](http://helenhight.diary.ru/p186246392.htm?from=last#form)]


End file.
